STOLEN

by DAWN KOPMAN WHIDDEN

  Jean smiled at him. “My name is Jean, Tristan. I know you must be very frightened, Tristan, but you’re safe now.”

  Nothing. The boy just stared back at her, his face void of expression. Frustrated by the lack of progress, and now trying to ignore a sudden rise in temperature in the room, she looked around at the others to get their take on the sudden climate change. No one else appeared to be bothered.

  Turning to Marty with a look of despair, she shrugged her shoulders and offered him the chair, surrendering the interview to her partner.

  “You try.” She relented, abandoning the stool to Marty.

  Marty made no more progress than Jean. No matter the question or how it was delivered, the child remained steadfast. He was either unable, or unwilling, to tell them anything about anything, much less give them details of what had occurred in that cabin. He gave them no answer when they asked him “Were you there when the men were shot? Do you know the men that were shot?” or “Who shot them?” or even “Who was he?” and “How did he get in the woods?”

  She turned to Justin who had positioned himself in front of the entrance to the room. “Did they test him for gunshot residue?”

  “Yes, but it came back negative,” he told her.

  If that were true, they would have to eliminate the boy as a suspect. She had flirted with the thought that the kid may not be a witness at all, but he was the shooter. Not that she would blame him.

  “Well, if this kid isn’t the shooter, then where the hell is that other gun then? There had to be a third person in that cabin. We find the third person, we find that missing gun. Then another thought crossed her mind, “unless maybe the kid hid it.” she said, as if an afterthought, turning back to look at the small boy.

  She reached out her arm and laid her hand on Marty’s shoulder.

  “Thanks, Marty. I guess we’re done here for now, tell the Captain I hope he has a speedy recovery.” She selfishly wanted to ask him to come back to work, now that the Captain was out of surgery, but thought better of it.

  “I’m going to go back to the station, see what the techs found. Maybe Frank found something on the video that will give us some answers.”

  She smiled at Hope. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  Her first task would be to see what she could drum up on the dead guy, Fred Blakey, or whatever his real name was, and find out exactly who the guy in surgery was and how the two were connected. Maybe, by doing a little old-fashioned detective work, she would be able to connect the dots. She resigned herself to the fact that this kid couldn’t or wouldn’t tell them who he was, so she would have to do it for him. Somewhere out there was a mother and father probably going insane not knowing what has happened to their little boy, devastated by the thought they possibly were never going to see their child again. Her professional persona took a sudden nosedive, as she found herself almost in tears at the thought, as another wave of intense heat traveled through her entire body.

  He knew he should be upstairs with his family standing vigil over his father’s bedside, but there was something about this kid that captivated him. The most obvious was that he physically looked like he could have been Hope’s son. His eyes were the same shade of green, his hair the same dark chocolate brown.

  The medical team that examined him determined that Tristan wasn’t out in the weather for too long, because they found no signs of exposure or injuries. A few bruises and scratches here and there scattered around were just the signs of a very active little boy. Justin handed Marty a small pair of sneakers and he sat down in front of Tristan, who was sitting up now, his legs dangling over the side of the bed. Marty grabbed Tristan’s ankle and lifted his right leg onto his own right knee and maneuvered the canvas shoe onto his foot. Marty started to lace it up, but Tristan leaned over and grunted, pushing Marty’s hand away and taking possession of the shoe string; he proceeded to make a bow out of one side of the lace and then a second bow and tie it into a knot. He looked up at Marty with a smile so wide, as if he was so proud of what he had accomplished. Marty put the second sneaker on his other foot and adjusted the tongue, and then he leaned back, allowing Tristan to do the same with the second sneaker.

  Marty thought they were getting along fine so he was caught off guard when it happened. Marty turned his back for just a second when Tristan jumped off the bed and took off, only this time the wall he ran into was wearing a skirt. The social worker, Sophie Harris, stood blocking the door. Tristan turned back to Marty and Marty could swear he was able to read the look in his eyes. Tristan was hoping that Marty would be an accomplice, and help him escape. Marty was tempted to tell Sophie to let him go, he wanted to follow, to see where he would lead them. Maybe he was not running aimlessly, after all. But he knew there were procedures that had to be followed and now it was in the hands of the social worker. Besides, Marty had a very ill parent, his only parent, who was in a room upstairs and had just come out of a very delicate surgery. He had priorities. Family first.

  Marty picked him up and placed him back on the bed. Tristan tightened his muscles and they became stiff in defiance, yet he didn’t fight him.

  “What’s going to happen to him, Sophie?” Marty asked her, keeping his hands firmly on either side of the child’s narrow hips, preventing any further attempt at escape.

  She moved in closer, also expecting the kid to try and take off again.

  “We have our entire department, and yours, looking for his parents. So far, he doesn’t match any of the children reported or listed in the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

  It was at that moment that Tristan leaned over, put his little hands on Marty’s shoulders and whispered in his left ear. “Dirty.”

  Marty looked deep into his eyes as he struggled against his arms to get back down from the bed. This time Marty let him go. Sophie went to stop him, but Marty shook his head. Tristan ran out the door and made his way down the corridor to the elevator. He got there just as the car landed on the floor and the doors opened. He slid in between two orderlies as they were getting out and several people followed him. Hope, Sophie, and Justin and an intern made it just before the doors shut and they watched him as he pushed the white button marked 4. He was headed back to the fourth floor. The same floor he was running down when Marty first grabbed him. The same floor Marty’s father now was recuperating in. Coincidently on the same floor, and very close to his dad’s room, was the man they found in the cabin with the gunshot wounds. He was just out of surgery and was placed in the recovery room, his condition now listed as guarded.

  As soon as the elevator arrived at the fourth floor, and the door opened, Tristan found himself standing directly in front of a replica of the thigh he sank his teeth into just a few hours earlier. Looking up, his eyes following the long legs and well-built torso before him, he appeared stunned when his eyes reached the face of the owner. It was Marty’s face. He was looking directly into the eyes of Marty’s identical twin brother, Tommy.

  His head twisted back and forth, from Tommy to Marty and then back again, his mouth opened wide in awe. Suddenly, he broke into a giggle so infectious everyone started to laugh. Then, as if something magical happened, he took Marty’s hand in his and pulled him further into the corridor. As he approached each opened doorway, he drew back the curtains frantically as he poked his head in, looking to see who occupied each bed.

  In a huff, the biggest female Marty had ever seen, attired in nurse’s scrubs, came running after them. The I.C.U. nurse began to voice her objections to all of the activity and began to yell at them, though the decibels in her voice were barely raised above a whisper.

  “He can’t be in here! None of you can be here. It’s not visiting hours!” She yelled and whispered at the same time. It was Hope that placed herself in front of the tree trunk in white, staring the huge woman down, as if she was David facing the giant. The rest of the entourage just ignored her as they watched as the kid disappeared into one of the cubicles. As he physically disappea
red from Marty’s view, he stepped up his pace and followed him. Tristan stopped at the foot of the patient’s bed and his mouth opened wide, and as if there was a time delay, the word finally came out of him. It wasn’t a scream, but it was loud. “DIRTY.”

  Marty grabbed him just before he went to grab the breathing tube that was taped down to the man’s mouth. He had reached him just in time, as he barely touched the man they believed they had correctly identified as Troy Blakey. The man was attached to wires and medical apparatuses that beeped and gave off sucking noises in a hypnotic pattern. His chest area and stomach were covered in gauze and his chest inflated and deflated along with the rhythm of the respirator that had been inserted down his throat.

  The nurse whose name tag appropriately read ‘Ms. Grande,’ had somehow gotten past Hope and pushed her way into the room, made an attempt to grab Tristan by the crook of his arm. You had to give the kid credit; he was slick, Marty thought. He was lightning fast. He slipped out from her grasp and made his way over to the end of the bed, barely managing not to tear out the wires that were keeping the man alive. Tristan situated himself on the other side of Blakey and started to tug at the unconscious man’s shoulders. Marty could tell he was getting angry when he got no reaction, because his shaking became increasingly more violent and Marty was concerned that something would come loose, so Marty gently grabbed him and pulled him away. Marty stooped down so he was on his knees and was able to make eye contact with Tristan, trying hard not to appear threatening. It was something he had learned observing Hope with her patients.

  “Hey, kid, this man is very sick. We can’t bother him.” He looked at Marty, his expression so intense and hurt as if Marty had slapped him. His eyes drifted back to the man lying in the bed, glaring at him as if he was willing him to wake up. Marty couldn’t tell if the boy was trying to wake up the man because he was angry with him or because he needed him. He couldn’t understand why he had this feeling that Tristan was worried about the man that had kidnapped him and possibly performed and exposed him to “Dirty” things. But that wasn’t Marty’s field of expertise, it was Hope’s, and by the look on her face, Marty got the impression that she was as clueless as he was.

  Marty grabbed Tristan’s hand, the little boy’s fingers were sweaty and curled up into his palm in a loose fist and as Marty got up from his kneeling position he felt and heard his right knee crack. Marty thought the kid thought he farted, because he crinkled up his nose, as if he had been exposed to a rank scent, and once again broke out in that infectious giggle. It was that giggle that made Marty think that everything was going to be all right. He no longer was aware of the beeping of the machines, or the sucking sounds of the respirator, and suddenly his worries about his father had faded from his mind and for a brief moment all that was wrong in the world was swallowed up in the little boy’s laughter.

  With his attention momentarily diverted from the man in the bed, Marty walked him out, but that didn’t stop Tristan from taking a long last look. Taking a cue from him, Marty walked him past his own father’s room and took a quick look. Marty’s sister was on the phone in the corner and he nodded to her. Satisfied that his dad was sleeping and comfortable, he kept on walking towards the elevator at the end of the floor with the child until he could turn him over to the social worker.

  It took a bit of coercing and cajoling, because Tristan kept on grabbing his hand and insisting he wasn’t leaving without him. Marty finally convinced him he would be fine and he would see him tomorrow. The little boy finally, but reluctantly, left the hospital with Sophie Harris from social services. She informed Hope and Marty she was able to find a temporary home for him and although Marty was skeptical, he had known the woman for years and trusted her to take care of the boy. Before they left, he made Sophie give him the address and phone number of the family that agreed to take him in.

  Watching Marty and the boy gave Hope an uneasy feeling. She knew one of the main reasons Marty was so keen on getting married was he was anxious to begin a family of his own. He adored his niece and the multitude of nephews, but she knew how badly the man yearned for kids of his own. She noted in the brief time that had passed Marty was building some sort of emotional attachment to the boy and she was a little more than concerned, because she didn’t know how deeply psychologically and spiritually fractured the child was.

  The minute Marty turned to Hope and informed her he was going back to work, she knew he was crossing the line and getting emotionally involved. She could tell Marty already made up his mind that it was his responsibility to find out who the child was and he was going to make it his mission to make sure the little boy was reunited with his real family.

  Her plan was to discuss it with him when she drove him home to get a change of clothes. She wondered now if this was the best time for them to go on with their plans for their wedding this summer.

  “Maybe,” she thought to herself, “we can just postpone until next year.” Then a scary thought crossed her mind. How on earth would she explain to her mother she felt she should postpone her nuptials to Marty? No, the briefest thought of having to deal with her mother’s reaction sent shivers down her spine. Grace Rubin would have a conniption, a regular full-blown temper tantrum. All of a sudden her face turned pale as she had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Did she have this feeling once before or was she imagining it? Was it possible that she wanted to cancel the wedding to her first husband Richard, and didn’t heed the warnings, because she was afraid of her mother’s reaction?

  Her first marriage turned out to be a disaster. Richard was a womanizer, a total dirt bag; and deep in her heart, she had always known he couldn’t be trusted. She intellectually knew Marty was nothing at all like her ex-husband; and the only thing Richard and Marty had in common was their stunning good looks. Marty was so damn good-looking. No, she thought Marty was so much better than Richard—inside and out. It wasn’t Marty’s fault if women found him irresistible, but she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit the thought scared her. How long could a man like that be faithful? Wasn’t that the same problem she had with Richard? Didn’t Richard’s good looks turn out to be a curse for her? “Why,” she thought to herself, “couldn’t she fall in love with a homely man?”

  Fort Rock, Oregon

  The snow began falling before dawn and a new storm front had moved in and the biting wind was causing Lieutenant Michael Sanders’ nose to run. The Lieutenant was just six months shy of retiring and was looking forward to leaving the frigid winters of Fort Rock, Oregon to the warmer climate of Bell, Florida, a small farming community in North Central Florida. His wife’s sister had moved there five years ago and had been begging Tammy and him to join them there. In anticipation of his impending retirement, Sanders had purchased a twenty-five acre hay farm last summer; and days like today made the move look so much more inviting.

  Lieutenant Michael Sanders was in charge of the Homicide Investigation Tracking System, also known as H.I.T.S., a division of the Oregon State Police. The six-foot-two, hundred and ninety-five pound ex-marine was hoping for a quiet day at work, as he shook the slush off his boots and made his way into his office. He let out a sigh of relief; grateful to finally be indoors when the desk sergeant stopped him.

  “Hey, Loo, this just came over the wire,” the desk sergeant said as he handed him the faxed report.

  “That A.P.B. we had on that father and sons we were looking for in connection with that murder of that young woman, you know the one whose remains they found during the excavation, you know where that strip mall is going up . . . .”

  Exasperated from listening to the desk sergeant’s rambling, he grabbed the report from the man’s hands and started to flip through it. He knew getting to the point was not one of Tyrone’s better qualities. The man had a tendency to talk in circles; and Sanders would constantly have to coax him along if he wanted him to get to the point.

  “Yeah, I know all that, Tyrone, what about the suspects?”

  “
Well, some small town in New York is investigating a shooting. It appears to be that the dead guy is Arch Blakey. Troy Blakey, one of the sons, was also shot. He is in the hospital and in a coma.”

  “Do they know what happened?” Sanders asked him, as he made his way to his desk, removing articles of clothing as he went. He threw his coat and gloves onto a chair, and made his way to his desk which was piled with files and paperwork, leaving no room for his thermos of hot coffee, but somehow he managed to displace a few papers and sat the silver vessel down before sitting down himself.

  He scanned through the report. The dead man hadn’t been positively identified yet, but he had several I.D.’s on his person, and a vehicle on the premises fit the description of the Ford Focus that was mentioned in the A.P.B. The plates were not the same, but Sanders did not rule out that they were probably stolen. Reading further into the report, it was confirmed that the plates were stolen from a Wal-Mart parking lot somewhere in Missouri.

  The forty-four year old desk sergeant, Tyrone, was nicknamed ‘Scarecrow,’ due to his one hundred thirty-five pound, five-foot-six frame. The man was hyper, and danced around, shifting from one foot to another as he continued to talk. Sanders, engrossed in the report, hadn’t heard a word the man had uttered.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Looking up, Sanders finally acknowledged him.

  “Scarecrow, see if you can get this Detective Whitley, or a Detective Keal, on the phone. I’d like to talk to one of them and find out the medical status of Troy Blakey.” He handed the man back the file. As soon as he was sure Scarecrow was out the door and he was alone, he unlocked his top desk drawer and pulled out a round tin full of oatmeal cookies his wife Tammy baked the other day and gave him strict orders for him to share. He had hidden them under a Windows for Dummies manual to keep them from his thieving staff. He didn’t know how, or who in his staff managed it, but no matter where he hid them, someone would sniff them out and he would go to eat one and they would have mysteriously vanished. Well, this time he didn’t care if his wife accused him of being selfish; these were his cookies, and no one else was going to get their filthy, greedy mitts on them.